


Line of Work

by SparrowWritesFanfiction



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Mann co, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5705764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowWritesFanfiction/pseuds/SparrowWritesFanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Engineer gives away a small slice of his mind as a professional killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line of Work

I agreed to jus’ 20 minutes, 20 minutes ‘s what you’re getting’. But if I find out you broke our little deal, release this before its time. I have no trouble takin’ you down, boy.  
Now quit lookin’ like you just seen a ghost and get out your notepad. Ah got a lot to say.  
People always seem to see the objectives of this war. Capture points, killstreaks, round start and round ends. The clinical, trimmed, and business-like edge of war. Kill points, dominations, top player. These things, they’re like. They’re like a show to some people. They watch us, sure, but they don’t really SEE us. They see out status, our objective skills. It’s more like a competition than a war zone.  
Man, I hate those sons-of-bitches behind those cameras. So cold, so uncaring.  
In my life it’s been an obvious assumption that there’s somethin’ wrong with all of us out here. A point we have reached, a line we’ve crossed that we can’t go back from. There’s only so much death a person is supposed to experience. You can’t function here without a mile’s worth of mental scar tissue.  
Intergratin’ back into society? Are you crazy? Listen here, fellar. I’ve bashed a man’s skull in with a wrench then went about my business. I do that over 20 times a day. For money. Being a normal citizen? Never gonna happen, even if I somehow did get released from this whole mess a’ contracts. Nah. None of can go back.   
I suppose, in the end, that it makes sense th’ a lotta folks are scared of what we do. Killin’. When I was your age I woulda’ been too. The end of life. The big finale. Only, y’see, it aint’ like that for us. We live, we die. Over and over and over. It never ends, and it never gets any better. Human’s ain’t supposed to experience death and come out the other side, let alone ten times a day.   
No, for the last time, I ain’t TELLIN you what it’s like to die. So stop asking.  
My daily life? Huh. Well, it’s pretty repetitive for me at least. Wake up, work on my mechanics, murder the same nine people, eat lunch, murder more people, repeat.   
The psych behind a killer. Hmm. Now that’s a thinker. See, this is what i have come to believe. People that kill for the thrill are sick. People that kill for the power are government leaders. People that kill for money… Each have their own story. But out there, the people that work in life n’ death, TRUE death, they can’t go back either. Because for those people that’s the end. That’s it. For us? We could blow a man’s head off and he’s come right back five minutes later, guns blazin and screamin’ something fierce. Sure, there’s death here. But it ain’t real.   
Do I ever feel anything? Well what in unholy hell d’ya take me for, a machine? Of’ course I feel things, like any other decent human being. But it ain’t often that I feel a whole lot. I’m in a business that don’ really got time for that, nor tolerance. See, every brain is like, let’s say, this coffee pot. It’s got a whole lotta stuff swirlin’ up inside; chemicals, horomones, thoughts and emotions, and it’s lettin’ it loose every once ‘n a while. But it’s also got this handy little spout ‘n cover here. If I have the cover off, coffee, or thoughts, comes seepin’ right out. But if I keep the lid on, lock it down. None o’ that can interfere with my life. Suppression, son. It’s the trick passed down for generations.  
I guess none of us just really feel the shock any more. It’s easy to round a corner, grab a man’s arm and slam ‘is head into a wall ‘till he’s a goner. The blood, the screamin. That all gets shoved away as soon as your feet leave the battlefield. Then you appear clean as a whistle, ready to act and think normally. Like a civilian, y’see.   
But, uh. I’m not gonna lie to ya. There are some nights when that lid on yer mind opens. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. You know when it’s about to begin, ya start shakin something fierce, feelin’ queasy. Like your body’s telliin’ ya how badly you’ve messed yourself up.   
When it happen’s to others, it’s manageable. Y’can block out the sobbin’ with a pillow pretty easy. Most a’ the fellas knock themselves out , forget the whole thing ever happened, and we replicate the courtesy. But some a’ the boys. They’ll just sit there for hours, gazing at the wall in poorly-hidden horror. Eyes hollow. Because, well, I suppose the human brain can only hold so many atrocities at once. Gotta let ‘em out.

What does it feel like? I’ve felt a lot of things in my day, but none as worse as slippin’ up and lowerin’ the wall to the thoughts inside your head, exposing the remaining tender skin of your mind. You- You see a lot of things you realize you never wanted to see in the first place. Blood spattered all over your hands. Dead people, casually stepped over. The screaming. The pain. People, ripped apart two feet in front of you, by bombs and bullets. That’s the only time we ever all really REALIZE what we’ve been doin out there, I reckon. And it ain’t a good feeling. Honestly, sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could start over again., work as a freelance engineer. Maybe mechanical sciences. Make somethin’ to help people. But damn it all if we don’t have one life, an’ this is what I’ve done with it. I’m a killer, plain and simple. That’s the end of that.

I’ve been watchin’ the clock too, ya rat. Don’t think you can weasel more information outta me. I already got enough people who do that on a daily basis. 

Oh, I almost forgot. You’re payin’ for the coffee.


End file.
